A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

“Another deacon named Olsen.” Dean Halliwell appeared grateful for Jack’s intervention; he looked at James. “I understand Dean Samuels himself wished to defend you, but the bishop ruled that such overt partisanship on his principal advisor’s part was unwise.”

From the corner of his eye, Jack saw Clarice’s narrow. She’d no doubt interpreted that last comment as he had; unwise for the Church, not unwise for James. He was relieved that, although her lips thinned, she kept them shut.

After his initial disbelief at the bishop’s edict effectively confining him at Avening, James had grown increasingly subdued, leaving all subsequent questions to Clarice and Jack. Jack continued to probe, to glean all they could from Dean Halliwell, ably assisted by Clarice, although her contributions were primarily nonverbal.

Eventually, Dean Halliwell made his excuses and fled, Clarice’s saber-edged gaze fixed between his shoulder blades. Once his carriage had rattled away down the drive, the three of them returned to the study.

James sank into the chair behind his desk slowly, as if he still couldn’t quite believe the turn events had taken. His gaze was distant, fixed on the opposite wall, his mind far away.

While Jack could certainly sympathize—two hours ago James had had no idea there were any clouds on his horizon, let alone a storm of this magnitude—Jack’s reaction was more in tune with Clarice’s.

She paced back and forth, arms folded beneath her breasts. Her skirts swished as she turned. A definite frown drew down her fine brows; she was clearly wrestling with the problem of what next, of how best to react. How to proceed to clear James’s name.

“Well!” James blew out a breath. His gaze remained distant.

Jack caught Clarice’s eye and raised a brow; she frowned at him for a moment, then waved dismissively. “Oh, sit, for heaven’s sake. This is hardly the time for standing on ceremony.”

Of course, she’d held to every iota of ceremony while poor Dean Halliwell had been there; suppressing a smile, Jack sank into one of the armchairs. He studied James.

This was James’s battle; while Jack had every intention of doing all he could to assist, he needed to know James’s mind.

“I’ll have to go to London and rally the family.”

Clarice’s statement, delivered in a tone that brooked no dissension, let alone argument, brought James’s head up.

“Oh, no, my dear. There’s really no need…The bishop will see sense, I’m sure.” James looked at Jack. “Don’t you think, m’boy?”

Jack didn’t, but was saved from explaining by Clarice.

“If the bishop is ready to waste his time, and that of numerous others, in convening a private court to hear this matter, then there’s no grounds to suppose he won’t be swayed by whatever trumped-up arguments were laid before him in the first place.”

Precisely. “I think,” Jack said, once again grateful to be able to take the even, reassuring tack, taking the sting from the acerbic truth Clarice so unflinchingly dispensed, “that we do need to respond to this, James.”

James frowned at him, then at Clarice. She ceased her pacing and met James’s stare steadily. After a long moment, James seemed to shake aside his thoughts. “No.” He leaned back to look at them both. “This is a storm in a teacup, no doubt whipped up by Humphries’ regrettable envy. The most appropriate response is to ignore it. The less said, the soonest mended.”

Above her arms, Clarice’s breasts swelled.

“No, James. Not with this.” Jack’s voice was no longer reassuring, an edge of steel creeping in. “If you don’t challenge and defeat these ‘allegations,’ and the bishop determines you have a case to answer, then the charge that will go before any secular court will be one of treason.”

James smiled. “But that’s just it, dear boy. No one in his right mind would accuse an Altwood of treason.”

Clarice’s snort was eloquent. “For goodness sake, James! The only reason the bishop has convened a private court is because of the family, but he’s still convened that court. He’s still investigating the allegations.”

“But the allegations are false.”

Clarice looked at the ceiling so James wouldn’t see the exasperation in her eyes. “The bishop doesn’t know that. Indeed, it’s clear he doesn’t know what to believe, and without you or anyone else acting in your best interests, he might never see the evidence that will show the allegations to be false, only evidence that leaves a large question mark over your integrity.”

“Over your honor, James.” Jack caught James’s gaze as it swung his way. “Clarice is right. You need someone more devoted to your interests than just an appointed cleric looking into this on your behalf. Do you know this man Olsen?”

A glimmer of uncertainty passed through James’s eyes. He looked down; reaching out, he lifted a paperweight. “I have met him.”

They waited, Clarice by Jack’s chair, staring down at James, then she prompted in a tone that held clear demand, “And?”

James grimaced, sighed. “He’s young. He was only appointed last year. He was a chaplain with the army, one of the regiments. The bishop took him on when he returned after Waterloo.”

Jack felt the flare of Clarice’s temper even though she wasn’t directing it his way.

“So your defense rests in the hands of some wet-behind-the-ears whelp—”